“Better than South Korea?”
“We don’t know how far this thing reaches,” Drake said. “This guy’s already mentioned Spain, Russia and Germany. Who knows where else?”
“And in China?”
“We could pay a visit to their little house. Maybe learn some more.”
“Sounds like a plan. What about him?” Romero jerked the barrel of his gun sharply.
The Korean soldier began to shrink back, as if he might be able to squeeze into the tree at his back. “Please. I have a wife. A child.”
Drake stepped forward and buried his knife through the man’s heart.
“So did I.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Hayden put the phone down after another odd conversation with her boss. Gates had just rung to inquire about Lauren Fox’s mental state. Now the secretary had told her he was on his way to meet the woman. Hayden had warned him about the news reporter, Sarah Moxley, who continued to hang around but her boss seemed unperturbed.
The man had changed since his wife died. The fast-thinking, clear-talking, inspiring leader had been replaced with something cloudier. Something more suited to politics perhaps, but not something she could stake her career on anymore.
A situation that needed reviewing, but not yet. The high-class hooker, Lauren Fox, had been rumbling on about going home for the last twenty minutes.
“You should stay for your own safety.” Kinimaka was telling her, the huge Hawaiian looking out of place as he sat next to the small, pretty woman, dwarfing her. Hayden found a smile flitting around the corners of her lips as she stared at him, seeing his discomfort like no one else could, knowing him so well after their long working relationship, and wondering more and more often how the other kind of relationship might get started.
Lauren waved at him. “I already proved I can look after myself.”
“Your assassin was one of many, Miss Fox. You are the fourth victim in a few days. Sorry, attempted victim.” Kinimaka coughed. “We don’t know the scope of this thing yet. If you could help by giving us your movements—”
“I already told you! I get about. My job calls for some travel every now and then, alright? I gave you my movements.”
Trouble was they didn’t match up to all the previous victims. Not yet anyway. Kinimaka was studying the paper she’d written on. “How about early January? Let’s try that.”
Hayden thought about the previous victims. All dead because, as strangers, they had crossed paths with someone dangerous. And they had pretty much travelled in the same areas. At least, that was the theory. How they fitted in with suicidal, faceless assassins was a mystery that had them all beat.
“I have clients,” Lauren was saying. “If you’re not gonna charge me, at least let me contact them. My business is my livelihood.”
Kinimaka looked surprised. Alicia, still sitting next to the feisty woman, brightened up. “Tell you what, Foxy. I haven’t had a shag in months. How ’bout I spend a few days standing in for you?”
Lauren was about to answer when a shout rose from the control room. Hayden sped off immediately, Alicia a step behind.
The banks of monitors were flashing. Both Ben and Karin were standing. Torsten Dahl was buckling into a bulletproof vest.
“Move!” the Swede cried. “Fifth attempt in progress! The victim and the cops’re holding the assassin off at a friggin’ service area not thirty minutes from here!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Torsten Dahl leapt out of the big Dodge SUV even before it stopped moving. A row of cop cars sat before him, lined up outside the entrance to a small service station. A dozen pairs of world-weary eyes swiveled toward him.
“Who the hell are you?”
Dahl ignored them, considering the black SUV classification enough, and not caring for their tones or surly looks. He sized up the scene himself within a minute.
Several bodies lay strewn across the grassed area in front of the station. Dahl guessed these were innocent bystanders, caught up in the madness when the assassin tried to reach his target. It was after this that reports had started coming in of a shooter behaving very much in the manner Hayden and Kinimaka had flagged with every US agency. After that, the shooter’s target—a truck driver—had apparently produced a gun, escaped and barricaded himself in an alcove the service station used for a game room.
“We need to take this bastard alive.” Hayden breathed in Dahl’s ear. “If possible.”
Beyond the wide glass doors, Dahl made out the shelves and bright lights of the shop. Foregoing subtlety, he dragged one of the cops over. “What’s the layout of this place, my friend?”
The cop blinked for a moment before catching the look in the Swede’s eyes. To his credit, he was wise enough to know it was time for some straight talk. “Doors open onto an entrance hall. Shop’s off to the right, game room down a bit and to the left. Then the restrooms. We think the shooter’s past that, roaming the small food court and the fast-food area.”
“Civilians?”
“You better believe it, buddy. Restaurant staff and day-trippers. Some got away when the shooting started, sure, but it’d be a mistake to think everyone made it.”
Dahl grabbed Hayden’s arm. “If he’s anything like the other assassins, this man will be hunting the truck driver to the point of obsession. He won’t be watching the exits or entrances. He won’t be watching the people in there.” He paused, looking between Hayden and Alicia, quickly deciding on the least caustic and embarrassing of the two. “Sorry, Mano. Your girlfriend’s mine for a while.”
*****
Lauren Fox, watching events unfold on the big screen monitors, saw the camera swerve and sway as Dahl and Jaye moved swiftly around the building, heading for the rear entrance. She was intrigued, despite herself. One part of her wanted to get the hell out and salvage whatever remained of her clientele; the other was most definitely caught up in the excitement.
And a deep, wiser part of her knew that staying put was the safest move. For now.
The Secretary of Defense had joined them a few minutes ago, given her an appraising look, and then gone to talk to Ben and Karin Blake and their bodyguard, the big dude they called Komodo. Lauren noticed his eyes lingering on everything—from the field cams of Dahl and Jaye and Kinimaka to the surveillance cameras that protected the building’s perimeter, to the toned curves of Karin Blake’s body.
There was an interesting dynamic running through this group, she thought. She saw loyalty and compassion running alongside the capacity for instant violence and ruthlessness. Lauren knew how to read people. It was a quality that had kept her alive most of her life. She saw Ben Blake’s despair. His sister’s delight. Komodo’s happiness. And Jonathan Gates’ utter desolation.
Of course, she had heard about his wife and how she had died. The entire country knew. Lauren had already connected the dots and figured out that this was most likely one of the teams that had taken down the Blood King. The Russian criminal, Dmitry Kovalenko, was currently languishing in some secret hellhole, awaiting trial.
What the hell had she landed smack dab in the middle of?
And why? Her mind flicked back over the last several weeks. Nothing unusual jumped out at her. The photographs of the three dead victims rang no inner bells. Hayden had told her to focus her mind on any recent travel but she traveled almost every day. Now if the blond agent had specified outside New York, that might narrow the field a bit.
She hadn’t, but Lauren ran through it anyway. Three times, she thought. Washington DC. Boston. Atlantic City. Each time a ritzy but far-flung hotel.
On the monitors the action had started. She wasted no time concentrating on Torsten Dahl’s field-cam.
*****
Dahl strode boldly through the kitchen of the resident Popeye’s until he could see the food court area. Once there, he grabbed Hayden again, held her close, and ducked down behind the counter.
“See anyone?”
“Unfortunately not. Come on.”
Dahl rounded the counter and then sat with his back against it. Hayden cuddled into him, playing the scared girlfriend. Now they saw several pairs of scared eyes staring back at them from between table legs and even from underneath booths. Dahl picked out two bodies splashed with blood.
Then came the sound of fast footfalls. Dahl looked up in time to see a broad-shouldered man wearing a blue Abercrombie and Fitch zipper top and black khakis stride into the food court. Again, the Swede saw those staring eyes, the blank expression, and the competent manner in which the assassin moved. The gun he carried was held loosely, but still in a way where it could be used in half a second.
*****
“These are what all the assassins have been like?” Lauren asked. “These are the guys who are trying to kill us?”
Jonathan Gates rubbed his eyes tiredly. “You got it, Miss Fox. You still want to be returned to your apartment?”
Lauren made a face. “Not really.”
“Then sit still and watch.”
“This team you got. How good are they exactly?”
*****
Dahl held off on the charge. It wouldn’t do to get an innocent hit by a stray bullet. Plus they wanted this guy still breathing. The Swede held his natural urge in check—that of mayhem and destruction—and instead, concentrated on the man’s gun.
“Pretty standard.” He breathed to Hayden.
“Problem is when he recognizes a threat or nears the end of his mag he’s gonna go ballistic,” the ex-CIA agent murmured into his chest. “Suicidal tendencies do that.”
“I got him covered.” Dahl’s hand rested near a concealed weapon.
“Geez. He’s holding his gun. Just how fast are you Dahl?” Hayden sounded awed and a little worried.
“I haven’t yet met an equal.” As usual Dahl’s tone was matter of fact. The man didn’t know how to boast. Hayden believed his claim without question.
“Decision’s yours.”
Dahl was waiting for the squeaky clean assassin to turn away when all hell broke loose. The truck driver, it seemed, had made a similar assessment about the killer and must have been running low on bullets. A heavy grinding sound preceded the hammering of work boots against the tiled floor and, as the assassin turned, the truck driver flew into view.
Both men fired at the same instant. The assassin from the hip, the truck driver as he dove forward. Both bullets shot hopelessly wild. Dahl drew before Hayden could blink. The truck driver skidded helplessly across the polished floor, gun skittering away as he landed heavily. The assassin set his sights carefully.
Dahl had no choice. He fired in a heartbeat, saw his bullet strike his target’s bicep and shatter through bone. The gun pinwheeled away. The man’s body half-turned, but he kept his attention on the truck driver lying right before him.
The assassin, right arm hanging in a bloody ruin, continued to focus on his prey with a terrifying single-mindedness. His good arm flew out, striking the truck driver hard on the face. His hand closed around the man’s throat, squeezing.
But then Dahl was on him, ripping him away and hurling him against a wall-size neon advertisement. The light fizzed and then went out.
The truck driver collapsed in pain and relief.
Hayden slid to his side. “You alright? Are you hit?”
“Nah. Nah, I’m good. I got a permit for my gun, miss. I ain’t part of no militia.”
“That’s good. That’s fine. We need to talk to you.”
The truck driver made an effort to pull himself together. He sat up and cast a rheumy eye over both of them
“You guys don’t look like cops. He doesn’t even look American.”
Dahl smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Thank you.”
“Didn’t say it was a good thing, buddy.”
Hayden held up a hand. “Please. We really need to talk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
There was no comfort for Matt Drake. Not physically or mentally. His developing feelings for Mai were very much tempered by the self-hate and blame he nurtured for Kennedy’s death. Inner turmoil tore him apart, emotions ripping at his heart and his mind, making his stomach empty and his soul more than hollow.
The recent revelations about his old boss, Wells, weren’t helping. He found no closure in the fact that the man he had trusted and defended so long had turned out to be his enemy, and one of the catalysts behind the murder of Alyson and Emily—the car accident that ended their lives.
Arranged by an operative who went by the codename Coyote. Man or woman, group or corporation, they would pay. The Shadow Elite had paid dearly, but Drake knew even now it would be a mistake to think they were gone. The Shadow Elite had thrived for untold years by being part of a family. You didn’t destroy four families by chopping off their heads. It was the source that caused the festering, the root of the evil. And sometimes the root could be an entire network, or a single entity.
Some part of them still nestled in the shadows, spinning webs, he was sure.
And then he thought of Russell Cayman. The shadowy agent had not been heard of since he walked out of the third tomb of the gods carrying Kali’s bones. Was there a reason he had taken them? The Goddess Kali had been a manifestation of the worst kind of evil, sometimes associated with the Devil himself. It was interesting that Cayman chose her. And was he now being sheltered by what remained of the Shadow Elite? Didn’t really seem their style, but Drake assumed even they would have to restructure after losing their figureheads.
Now he jounced up and down in the covered-over bed of an old truck. Occasionally, either he or Romero lifted a flap of canvas and peered out, but the bleak, hilly brown and green landscape rarely altered. Sometimes they heard the sounds of workers toiling in the fields. Once when they looked out, a fine, drizzly mist had settled over everything. The man they had paid from the wedge of dollars in their packs had taken little persuading. This despite the harsh sentences handed out by the North Korean authorities to anyone helping Westerners, or indeed any of their own people who were caught trying to cross the border to China or repatriated as refugees. Most of these people faced harsh punishment, possibly torture and imprisonment in labor camps.
Still, many North Koreans escaped the impoverished country every day. The border might be well guarded, but desperate men always found a way.
Drake and Romero kept an eye on their driver, but every time they checked, all they received was a world-weary sigh from a face that was deeply creased by years of hardship and eyes that had long since forgotten what joy felt like. These were people born into toil, used and forgotten except by their own families. Six hours into the journey and they were still only about half way through. Drake found his thoughts drifting again—this time toward his old roommate and friend—Ben. The lad hadn’t matured as Drake had hoped. Despite facing death and captivity and somehow landing a girlfriend as hot and capable as Hayden Jaye, the young man had barely developed beyond the introspective super-geek he’d always been. It worried Drake, but he just hadn’t been in a position to help Ben. Nor had he known how to go about it.
One thing was clear; Ben was badly affected by the death of the soldier in the third tomb. Getting blood on your hands always made it seem more real, even if whizzing bullets still passed you by. Hayden had tried to help, Drake knew. She was a good person and wouldn’t intentionally harm anyone who didn’t deserve it.
But help only worked if it was accepted, taken on board. The recipient had to participate. Ben clearly wasn’t.
Carry your load. An old Dinorock tune. But it wasn’t necessarily true. To trust and to share was to half the burden, wasn’t it?
Drake took into account his own burdens. In addition to his women, there was the death of Daniel Belmonte and his protégé—Emma. Drake hadn’t yet found the time to visit her father, and even that fact wore him down.
He needed a bloody vacation.
Well, he thought, been on a deserted island, a sea voyage and to North Korea in the last week or so
. What more could he ask for?
Before the truck jostled and rebounded its way to the border, the truck stopped and the driver shouted. Drake and Romero popped their heads into the front cab.
“We here?”
The driver pointed. Drake understood. The border was across the dank hills to their left. They managed to get from the man that this was a relatively easy, but still manned, crossing point, which was perfect. They needed to get across sure, but they still needed transport on the other side.
Outside it was soggy and damp and hot. The two soldiers put their heads down and began the hike to the top of the nearest hill. The truck drove noisily away behind them. Within an hour, they had carefully crested the rise. Helpfully, the mist receded a bit as they shuffled across the top.
Below them, patchy grassland led to the Koreans concrete wall, wide enough to accommodate several men walking alongside each other. Beyond that lay about thirty feet of overgrown and untended no-man’s-land, perfect cover, ending where China’s crisscross patterned wire fence reared a little farther on.
A straggling line of ten or twelve troops marched in time along the Korean wall, heading for a distant checkpoint.
“Seems pretty low key,” Drake said. “We’ll cross and double back to the checkpoint. Borrow a vehicle tonight.”
Romero began to crawl down the wet hillside. “Sounds good to me.”
*****
Another three hours and they were nearing Harbin. The Chinese city was a surprising mix of ostentatious historical architecture and modern commercial office buildings, reflecting the changing face of not only the city, but the country as a whole. Harbin overlaps culturally with European designs amidst a distinct Russian cityscape and a new scenic waterfront combined with modern road systems. But instead of appearing haphazard and pretentious, the mix of old and new celebrates the past whilst fully embracing the future. Drake drove their battered old vehicle down a wide, increasingly busy road, feeling more conspicuous by the minute.
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